


absconditum, sanguine sanctum

by yourlocalbirb



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game), Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: draconic!Dragonborn, is that the Dragonborn Emperors Are Actually Eldritch Abomination Space Dragons, oh haven't you heard?, the Et'ada as Great Old Ones of unfathomable motive, the beast plague but make it dragons, the newest piece of wild conspiracy that's hot and hip with the Kids These Days
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-02-18 16:14:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21580420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourlocalbirb/pseuds/yourlocalbirb
Summary: “And Akatosh drew from his breast a burning handful of his Heart's blood, and he gave it into Alessia's hand, saying, "This shall also be a token to you of our joined blood and pledged faith. So long as you and your descendants shall wear the Amulet of Kings, then shall this dragonfire burn—an eternal flame—as a sign to all men and gods of our faithfulness.”- from the liturgy of the rekindling of the DragonfiresHumanity should have known better than to go forging blood-compacts with eldritch godlike entities from beyond the stars.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 46





	1. A PLAGUE OF DRAKES

**__ **

* * *

“ _THE DRAGON IS A DRAGON IS A DRAGON AS A DRAGON IS. HE is not merciful. HE IS NOT MERCIFUL._

_O SAINTED MOTHER OF THE DRAGON EMPIRE, YOUR CHILDREN SHALL YET CURSE YOUR NAME._

SHE HATH BROUGHT UPON US A PLAGUE OF DRAKES, A SCOURGE OF BEASTLY BLOOD.”

_The Dragon’s Madness, fragment iv_

* * *

  
  


“Take him.” Jauffre urged, again. 

“I….” His dear friend and former colleague stood framed in the doorway, the flickering light from the cheery fireplace spilling past his silhouette and casting strange shadows that jumped and flickered across their faces. One hand gripped white-knuckled at the wooden door frame, and the other wound it’s way slowly to clutch at the faint scar that ran across the man’s throat. The bundle in his arms was growing heavy. He shifted the child’s weight impatiently and tried again.

“Jules, please-”

“Jauffre.” the former battlemage rasped out, his Nordic accent made thick with terror. “What you’re giving me… This is not-” 

“This is- I understand the sentiment behind this and appreciate it, truly I do- but- one of- one of _His_ children?” The other shuddered. “Of _that_ bloodline? So far from the capital and those who could watch it better? Has our lord finally lost his mind at last- _I_ cannot- cannot _raise_ it, Jauffre. Not here. Does he know what he’s asking of me?”

The other peered hopelessly at him. “Had I not performed my duties admirably? Have I displeased him so direly in my service that _this_ is-”

“Displeased? By the Blood, no, Jules.” Jauffre interrupted, brow furrowing in confusion.

What in the names of all the Divines had gotten into him? He’d never seen the mage to be so unnerved, not even after the Simulacrum, fresh from the horrors of the Deadlands had the man ever appeared even slightly rattled, but now this… this behavior was new, bordering near on _unhinged_. He felt a momentary sliver of doubt in their lord’s choice of fosters take hold, but squashed it firmly. If Uriel said Jules was the only man capable of raising his son, then Jules it was. 

Now if only he could convince the man himself of that fact. 

“How could he be displeased? Without your efforts, the Simulacrum might have gone on much longer and Uriel might never have escaped from Tharn’s clutches. No, this is an honor, my friend- he values your service. Akatosh’s beard, Jules, he insisted you were the only one he could trust with this.” he said, soothingly, and apparently that was the wrong thing to say because the Nord only flinched and withdrew further into his home with a low groan. 

“I do wish you wouldn’t say that.”

Jauffre blinked. The bundle in his arms stirred for the first time, and he glanced down for a moment, worried that the babe might finally give voice to his discomfort and start crying. Instead the child remained steadfastly silent, much as he had for most of the journey from the capitol. 

Blue eyes peered curiously up at him, catching the light in an odd way that made them almost seem to glow. Those eyes… Even now, they looked so much like Uriel’s. 

He fought back the urge to shudder. 

He returned his attention to his shaken friend, frowning.

“Wish I wouldn’t say what?” 

The man shook his head vehemently, lips pressed together in a thin line, eyes wide with terror. “What, Jules? You wish I wouldn’t say _what_?” he prodded again. “That he trusts you? What?”

“That… name. Not here, not with… one of the Blood _in your arms_ , you fool.”

“ **_Akatosh!_ ** **?** Why, Jules? Wh-”

  
  
  


In lieu of answering, the other man merely shook his head and repeated his earlier declaration. 

“I cannot take him. He cannot be my son. I- my wife and I, we _cannot_ raise him-”

“Jules, you’re no Emperor, that’s true, but gods above man, don’t compare yourself to Uriel! You and I both know that anything would be better for the lad than that, you’ll be _fine_ -”

“I am not speaking out of mere petty fears of my own inadequacy here, Jauffre- but the inadequacy of protection… for both his and these people’s sake.”

“I..what are you saying, Jules? If you’re worried about someone attempting to use the child against him, or being attacked- This is Bruma, Jules, Cloud Ruler is just down the road, you’ll have Blades agents practically crawling up your backside from the moment I leave- if anything, this is safer for him than living in the heart of the Imperial City.”

“You still don’t understand, do you? This is not _a child_ , Jauffre- it is a _death sentence_ -” the former mage choked off with a frustrated cry, hiding his face against the doorframe. Jauffre withdrew in bewilderment, hugging the child closer to his chest unconsciously.

Jules was silent for a moment and then, he lifted his head, staring at the Grandmaster with a haunted look on his face, before stepping back out of the doorway. “ Fine. Come in, quickly.”

“You have served our master faithfully in all accounts, have you not, Jauffre? And your duties as Grandmaster mean you are privy to ...more of...the _Truth_ than most men, yes? You’ve read the annals in Cloud Ruler, the histories-” 

“Those are old tales, ancient history!” Jauffre said hurriedly as he settled into the chair, readjusting the still silent bundle in his arms, dismissing the implication with a shake of his head. He stared at Jules anew, and then insisted. “Those days are long past.”

“And yet the Dragonguard still exists, does it not?” Jules laughed, grim and hollow, sinking into the chair opposite him. “How old were you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“How old were you when Pelagius died? Do you remember it?”

“I…. no older than 19, I suppose- I was still training in Cloud Ruler at the time, so no, but he… Jules _what_ are you on about? Emperor Pelagius died of illness in his bed, I fail to see how that is relevant-”

“Yes, oh, he died of a ‘sickness' alright-” Jules leaned forward with a wild look in his eyes. His eyes jumped from shadow to shadow, wary and watchful, as though he expected ...something to melt out of the dark corners of the room at any moment. He continued in a low, hushed tone. “ _The same that haunts all their line_ -” 

“No!” Jauffre barked sharply, recoiling in alarm. Such talk was bordering on treason. “Jules, it was an ordinary illness, the healers confirmed it, Uriel stood by his bedside as the man took his final breaths, for Divines’ sakes, it wasn’t-”

“If it had been... that, which it _wasn’t_ -” he insisted, trying to ignore the uncanny way the child in his arms still stared at him. “Surely someone would have noticed- we would have been called for. I- we, the Blades would have known-”

  
  


“You were still training in Cloud Ruler, remember, Jauffre? You weren’t there. You were only a recruit then, and they don’t even tell most senior Blades about… _that. You weren’t there._ ” Jules said with a grim laugh, that wild, haunted look still in his eyes. “I was. Uriel stood by his deathbed, yes- but only after the man was well and truly dead, and not without more Dragonguard than you could shake a stick at flanking him.” 

“I…” Jauffre gaped at him.

“And what of Calaxes, eh?”

“Tharn... had him killed?”

“Oh aye, only good thing that damn traitor ever did, though he got a mite more than he'd bargained for with that one, I think. Arrogant fool had already driven you and the other Dragonguard into hiding by the time he realized ole’ Calaxes was planning on making himself a _problem,_ you see, and so things got _messy_ and Tharn, being the buffoon that he was, botched the cleanup pretty badly-”

“Jules, are you suggesting that _Calaxes ...succumbed_ -”

  
  


“I’m not sure, to be honest, but it seems a tad more likely than his ‘stumbling backwards into a brazier during the attack’ doesn’t it? Ever taken a real good look at the braziers in the Temple? 

I have, and let me tell you, those pillars are a good five feet above the average height of a man, couldn’t ‘stumble’ into one if you tried. Certainly explains the decision to cremate the man- or whatever was left of him, anyways- don’t ya think?”

Jules was silent for a moment, and then he snorted. 

“Did Uriel a favor either way, he probably would’ve had the Dragonguard on him not long after he returned anyways. Calaxes _worried_ Uriel, you see- our lord was convinced that he’d grow to be the type who’d succumb quickly. Religious zealotry and boundless ambition, aye, he’d have been just the type of fool enough to _listen_ -”

  
  


“ _Listen?_ Listen to what? To who?” 

  
  
  
  


“Who do you think?” Jules muttered cryptically, which in no way answered the question. “You may be closer than most men will ever have the chance to be to the royal family, Jauffre, but you were not as close as I- you didn’t see what I saw. You may have learned bits and pieces, aye- but those were the merest table-scraps of knowledge necessary for you to do your duty as Grandmaster of Blades, of the Dragonguard. Jauffre, my friend, all of that is _nothing_ compared to what I saw in the Deadlands during the Simulacrum. ”

“What are you talking about, Jules?” Jauffre felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. 

“Not even in the Annals of the Dragonguard did they dare speak wholly of it, and I daren’t to say so out loud but.... They- Uriel is a good lord, a just lord, and a kindly one- he _cares_ , you see- _cares_ for his people, those who serve him, and thank the gods for that much. We needn’t _fear_ him but- the Dragon-blooded, they are not _like_ us, Jauffre. They aren’t hu-”

He broke off as Martin stirred again, and wiggled impatiently in Jauffre’s arms. Blue eyes turned curiously towards the other man, and Jules fell abruptly silent, staring back at the baby with an almost stricken expression on his face. The babe fought against the swaddling, and then two tiny, chubby hands stretched out, reaching imploringly for the other man. Jules swallowed, and then a strange look passed over his face, and he held out his hands to Jauffre.

“ _....Give him to me_.”

“They aren’t _what_?” he pressed, and then blinked at the other’s abrupt change of heart. “I thought you said-”

“No, it's too dangerous for you to know, shouldn’t have said anything. Just forget it. Doesn’t matter now anyways.” Jules said firmly, and then insisted again. “ **_Give him to me_ **, Jauffre.”

Jauffre stared at him. Unnerved by the intensity and suddenness with which he’d changed his mind, he stood from his seat, stepping back around the chair, turning to shield Martin from Jules protectively.

“You needn’t worry, Jauffre, I’ll not harm him- not sure I could, anyhow- I’ll look after the boy. Here, give him here- Go and tell our master that I'll see his orders carried out, as always. Go on.”

* * *

  
  
  
  


The former bodyguard of the Emperor looked down at the babe in his arms. 

“Don’t you worry, Uriel, I’ll look after your son for you.” 

Blue eyes stared evenly back up at him and Jules fought off the rolling wave of nausea that he’d only felt before when under the gaze of the Emperor. The notice-me-not charms would need redoing, and soon- as they were now, they were only just barely hiding the unnerving looking slit pupils. 

For once, Jules was thankful for the remoteness of his lands’ location- the distance from the city might have been irksome before, but now it was a boon. Not even he was sure there was a notice-me-not or illusion powerful enough to disguise the magicka rolling off of the babe in his arms in waves. He smiled despite himself, and absently cooed at the baby, murmuring to himself as he readjusted the swaddling. 

He did his best to ignore the way the child stared up at him with those ice-blue dragon-eyes in unabashed fascination. 

His smile faltered, and turned grim, and he added under his breath as he went to wake his wife, tucking the child against his shoulder in the crook of one arm. “Even if it kills me.”

Delighted, the baby broke the silence at last, erupting into a stream of babbling laughter, one chubby hand winding in his hair and giving an experimental tug.

* * *

  
  


“ _THEY are not like US, we who are mortal and frail- THEY are born of HIS Blood, halfbreed becoming-gods, PALEBLOODED ADA- but clumsily imprisoned in mortal flesh, unsightly and monstrous in the face of THEIR FATHER-CREATOR-ARBITER.“_

_The Dragon’s Madness, fragment i_

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


“My lord.” Jauffre lingered hesitantly in the doorway, eyeing the tightly drawn curtains of the study with a faint unease. The scarring on his right leg itched, and he resisted the urge to scratch at it. His lord was in a mood, so it seemed.

“Ah, Jauffre, you’ve returned. Good, good.” He frowned at the distracted, harried tone of his liege-lord’s voice, the dimly lit room, the _mirror,_ looking very out of place in the center of the room. The chair before it, with it's back set to the desk and the royal seated at it.

A strange and nonsensical arrangement to those lacking insight, to be sure. Yet, to those who served in close quarters with the Dragonborn bloodline, such accommodations were seen for the kindness that they were.

More troubling to Jauffre, however, was the fact that they had become increasingly _necessary_.

A hasty, momentary glance at the man himself confirmed his suspicions and Jauffre immediately recoiled, wincing, years of training and self-discipline the only things keeping him upright.

_Man,_ he thought shaking the afterimages from his eyes, _was a poor choice of words._

He shuddered at the disorienting blur of scales and teeth, and the white-hot suggestion of flames that danced on the edges of his comprehension. The way they crowded bewilderingly behind the unassuming, ill-fitting illusion-shape of a man would have sent any lesser man reeling. If they could even _see_ it, that is. 

Not many could. 

Jauffre was one of the unlucky few. And, apparently, so was Jules. He grimaced. 

Uriel looked up, and he quickly redirected his gaze elsewhere. Meeting the royal Dragonborn’s eyes was difficult even for the senior members of the Dragonguard on the _best_ of days, and all signs clearly said that _this_ was _far_ from the best of days.

“Well?” Uriel said, and his voice, through somewhat raspy and hoarse- like a man who’d just gotten over an illness, or perhaps breathed in too much smoke- still carried that undeniable aura of _command_ . “You have a report to make, don’t you? _Come in.”_

The Dragonborn’s mouth twisted in a grotesque approximation of a smile, and with a mirthful snort that sent a shower of sparks and smoke gusting across the desk in billowing clouds, he added. “ _Don’t worry, I won’t keep you for long_.”

Jauffre stepped forward, feet carrying him further into the darkened room almost on their own, regardless of his sudden wishes to be anywhere but there at the moment.

He took his customary place in the chair, eyeing the reflection of the man behind him in the mirror with no small amount of concern. 

The enchantments on the mirror held… _mostly._

There was no disguising the too-vivid blue of the other’s eyes, nor the curling wisps of smoke and flickering embers that trailed out of his mouth with each breath. The air around him shimmered with heat. _If one closed their eyes and ignored the constant, oppressive illusion magic that saturated the air and demanded your attention with every breath,_ Jauffre thought _, one could almost pretend they were sitting with their back to a fireplace._

The thought was amusing, until the ‘fireplace’ moved, betraying the far more discomforting truth of reality with the grinding, metallic whine of scale-on-scale and a gust of hot wind blasted across his back. 

Jauffre, as surreptitiously as he could, scooted the chair forward, and then returned his gaze to the mirror.

His king looked… tired.

Whether that was the intended effect Uriel wished to come across, Jauffre could not say for sure. Given the brief glimpse of his earlier state, he could hazard that he likely wasn’t all that far off the mark.

“Jules accepted my request, then, I take it?” Uriel inquired after a moment, in that self-assured yet detached tone that all but said he already knew what the answer would be.

_As if there had ever been any alternative_ , Jauffre thought bleakly.

“Aye, he did, Uriel. B-” a heartbeat of hesitation, and then he fell silent. Jules was, despite his faults, a good man. A good friend.

The scratching of the quill stopped.

“But _what_ ?” He felt the weight of the other’s stare settle on his back. A flurry of embers fluttered out of the Dragonborn’s mouth as he spoke, and the reflection in the mirror _rippled_. 

Jauffre eyed it worriedly. The enchantments laid into it were costly and complicated to the extreme. Since Ria’s death, Tharn’s _betrayal_ and subsequent demise- and Jules’ retirement- someone capable of replicating them would be hard to find indeed, should Uriel shatter yet _another_ mirror. 

He wasn’t sure which worried him more- the idea of being showered in debris should the mirror break, or being caught in the growing inferno at his back. 

Though it was far better than the alternative- not even he, nor Jules or even the Eternal Champion would _dare_ make a report _facing_ Uriel- sitting here in this chair, when the Emperor was like this, took a certain kind of courage. 

But even _he_ was not bold or foolish enough to attempt to _lie_ to the Dragonborn.

“He did so, but not without expressing a great deal of ...alarming concerns, my lord.” He admitted after a moment. He frowned disapprovingly at the mirror. “Things that are known only to your kin and the Dragonguard.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


"Bea," the blue-eyed boy with too-sharp teeth asked his not-sister one day when he was nine and she was seven. "Why do you think Da' is scared of me?"

Beatrice paused to squint up at her brother where he sat perched atop the oxcart. Too quickly, she blurted out. "He isn't scared of you, Marty."

Marty smiled indulgently down at her, fading notice-me-nots rendering the gap-toothed smile as a blurred suggestion of too many teeth in a way that had her wincing and scrubbing at her eyes with the palm of one hand.

She looked back up after a moment, and he took pity on her, rolling over onto his back to stare at the rafters of the family barn.

" _You're lying_." he pointed out calmly, with the same amount of certainty as though he’d just noted that the sky was blue, or the chill of late autumn in the air.

"It's okay though, I don't mind. Da's just scared cause he's not sure how to protect all of us, and he doesn't like it when I _know_ things, cause kids aren't supposed to just _know_ stuff."

"Yeah. Maybe."

Blue eyes unlike either of their parents' turned to stare inquisitively at Bea. "....Are _you_ scared of me, Bea?"

  
  


"No." She said flatly, lobbing a handful of hay at him. "You're kinda weird sometimes, an' I don't like you when you're being a brat and hoarding all the blankets, but you don't _scare_ me."

* * *

  
  


_“Like all FIRST SPIRITS, THE DRAGON yearns for one thing- a REFLECTION, a CONTINUATION, a SHED-SKIN SOUL-OF-SOULS, an IDEAL CHILD of HIS Blood._

_And HE will accept nothing less than PERFECTION._

_PRAY THAT THEY NEVER REACH IT._

_ON THAT DAY-_

**_OUR WORLD WILL DIE._** ” 

_The Dragon’s Madness, fragment i_


	2. THE OLD BLOOD

**__**

* * *

“FROM BEYOND THE ARUBIS HE CAME TO THEM, WHISPERING OF DREAMPLANES AND THEIR MAKING—AND THEY CALLED HIM LORKHAN, _**WHO-IS-NOT**_ , FOR HE HAD HIDDEN HIS MANY NAMES FROM THEM, A NAMELESS PRESENCE THAT DWELT IN THE SHADOWS OF THEIR THOUGHTS.”

_The Dragon’s Madness, fragment ii_

* * *

When Martin is just shy of ten years, his not-sister nearing eight and a half, and the snows blocking the pass to Skyrim have begun to melt at last, they hear their first rumor of dragons- a man, straggling into the tavern in the city, raving to anyone who will listen about the great and terrible beast that had hunted him all winter long in the pass.

The people of Bruma scowl and shake their heads, decrying the man to be touched by the Madgod- and an idiot to boot, for being foolish enough to tarry too long into winter’s grip before attempting the pass in the first place.

“ _Dragons_.” Beatrice scoffs at her brother, later that evening as she joins him in the field, putting her hands on her hips and shaking her head in a clumsy attempt to mimic the older girls she’d overheard in the market.

Her mother had joined in, laughing with the townsfolk at the absurdity of the idea.

Her father—lips thinned in an agitated frown, and a hand gripping hard on her brother’s shoulder, steering the boy closer to his side—had not.

She had not missed the way he periodically cast a wary glance to the skies as they made their way home from the market, either.

Still…

_**“Dragons!”**_ she tries again, louder, when her brother gives no response, eyes still fixed on the distant, snow capped peaks of the Jeralls. _**“**_ In _ **our**_ mountains??? Can you _believe_ it, Marty?”

Her brother turned, tilting his head and watching her with smug, knowing amusement.

After a moment, his mouth split into a grin, face made savage and wild by a shaggy mane of long hair that had yet to be cut and the suggestion of canines slightly too long and slightly too many to belong in a human face.

“.... _ **Yes.**_ ”

She gaped at him, parroted rebuttals dying an uncertain death on her tongue in the face of her brother’s serene, unshakeable surety.

A _dragon_ -

A dragon in the Jeralls was _ridiculou_ s, because _everyone_ knew dragons were just stories. Even Marty knew stories weren’t _real_. _Dragons_ weren’t _**real**_ \- Mama had said so, the girls in the market had said so, even Papa’s friend Brother Jauffre had _laughed_ at the suggestion of a dragon haunting the mountain passes. But…

Marty, he-

Marty _knew_ things.

“Y-” Bea fell silent and shivered, a sliver of doubt tinged with fear curling around her heart, and suddenly found that she could no longer stand the thought of standing alongside her brother in the rapidly darkening twilight for even a second longer.

“I’m gonna go insi- _I’m gonna go help Mama!”_ she exclaimed hurriedly, and then without waiting for her brother to respond, turned and dashed for the light of their family home, escaping into the safety of the glow of the fireplace and the warmth and familiar surety of her mother’s gentle scolding.

Martin, however, merely remained where he was, watching disinterestedly as she fled, and then, with a slow, reptilian blink of too-blue eyes, resumed watching the distant peaks of the Jerall Mountains, that secretive smile returning to his face.

* * *

“THE PRESENCE THAT THEY NAMED LORKHAN SOOTHED THEM, SAYING ‘‘ _ **..THEN TAKE THE CHILDREN ... AND BIND THEM TO THE DREAM, LEST THEY SEEK ASCENSION IN THE PATH OF FLORA’S HEIR.’**_

_The Dragon’s Madness, fragment ii_

* * *

Uriel, for some incalculable reason he does not deign to impart- and there _is_ a reason, this Jauffre knows- expects reports on the child’s progress, and so it is that the grandmaster of the Dragonguard returns from yet another trip to Bruma, only to find his master absent from his study.

This is not unusual, per say.

The room itself is laid out in much the same manner it had been for the previous dozens of reports he’d made—the heavy wooden desk, the chair, and the mirror before it.

What _is_ unusual, however, is the book.

He doesn’t know why it sticks out to him, or why it has captured his attention so, but- there is a book on the desk.

It is…

It is unsettling in its unassuming nature, so nondescript it sets his teeth on edge and instincts screaming to _flee_. The book in and of itself is unspeakably plain, titleless and blacker than pitch in a way that seems to suck in all the light around it, a black hole in the space above the desk that almost seems to waver and move. He is glad at least that none of the common staff happened upon it—even as Grandmaster of the Dragonguard, with all his experience and training and... _advantages_ , it _still_ makes him feel ill just to look at it. But for anyone else… the illusion magics wrapping the book are so thick and heavy it would have been kinder to simply beat them bloody about the head with a brick and then tell them it wasn’t there.

Uriel did _not_ want this seen.

Torn between compulsion and terror, he drifts from the doorway, letting the door creak closed behind him.

The itch that has plagued his right leg since he set foot in the room becomes a throbbing pain.

He reaches out, and, it might just be his imagination ( _it isn’t_ ) but the edges of the pages visible seem to crawl with a swarm of writhing, inky lines.

His hand settles on the cover, and—

_the writhing mess of words churns faster and faster and **faster** , spilling out, up and over onto the blacker-than-ink cover, rushing eagerly towards his hand, and_—

_the indecipherable text writhes and convulses, shuddering into tendrils of inky black, unfurling slowly-yet-lightning-fast and **reaching** for _him _, and_ —

_the throbbing in his leg quickens into the searing, stinging pain of a red-hot brand, and—_

**_and—_ **

And then the book is suddenly— _mercifully—_ jerked away, and Jauffre blinks as he staggers forward to lean against the desk. The ringing in his ears gradually fades and Jauffre dazedly looks up to see Uriel standing before him, an unreadable expression on his face. He is winding a cloth, covered with yet _more_ illusion runes and notice-me-nots, around the last corner of a swimming, shuddering book-shaped void, and—

“ _ **Sit.**_ ” his lord commands, voice full of brimstone and sulfur and the echoes of thunder.

* * *

“BUT LORKHAN-WHO-IS-NOT, SNAKE-TONGUED SEP, SPOKE FALSELY, FOR HE WAS THE CHILD-HEIR OF SITHIS WHO HE HAD SLAIN, AND HAD GAINED MASTERY BY THIS VERY PATH OF BIRTH-THROUGH-DEATH.”

_The Dragon’s Madness, fragment ii_

* * *

The look Uriel gives him in the mirror is one of mild, but fond disapproval, and once the nausea has passed and his vision no longer swims, Jauffre finds that he feels more like a child or, worse, _a dog,_ who's been caught misbehaving being _scolded_ than he does an advisor to one of the most powerful men in all Tamriel.

In front of him, Uriel-in-the-mirror smiles indulgently at the unspoken comparison, and Jauffre remains resolutely focused on nothing at all, deliberately making no effort at counting the number of teeth. ( _Too many, too sharp_ , his mind protests, thrashing against the notice-me-nots. _Wrong. Wrong. Wrong_ -)

The hand on his shoulder squeezes, shaking him slightly in what he supposes is meant to be an encouraging, reassuring gesture of camaraderie between friends, but to a part of him he steadily refuses to acknowledge, the not-there talon-tipped claws that sink into his fragile, human flesh simply put him more in mind of a wild animal thrashing its helplessly caught prey.

Jules had accused him of being unknowing, unaware of the true nature of the Empire's ruling family—but there is a great deal of difference between being oblivious or lacking the insight to see, and being _able_ to see but _ignoring_ it for the sake of one's sanity.

Or one’s life.

" _You are bleeding_." The sandpaper voice pointed out, or acknowledged, or chided- Jauffre could never quite decipher the other’s tone when he was like _this_ \- and then Uriel, mercifully, releases him at last.

A hand appears in his peripheral vision, offering him a square of soft-looking off-white fabric. Jauffre forces his eyes to focus only on the fabric- and not on the hand holding it, the deep ochre of the scales that do and do not cover it, the absurdity of the difference in sizes between the comically small scrap of fabric and the-

the completely normal, _human_ hand.

He resists the urge to prod at the still-smoking talon marks on his shoulder, instead holding the proffered handkerchief to his nose, head held at an angle so as to stem the flow of blood. It smelt, like everything his liege-lord touched, of fire and ash and smoke and- _and_ -

Absolutely nothing at all.

He blinked up at the ceiling, and then slowly, carefully removed his hand from his nose. He eyed the handkerchief clutched in it with a vague sense of dismayed confusion, and watched the fading rust colored stains unravel and disappear from the now pristine and unblemished fabric square with a dull, numb sort of acceptance until that, too, fades away.

He rises from the chair and stands there for a moment, unsure of what it was he was meant to be doing.

The crawling feeling that he'd forgotten something nagged at him, and his shoulder twinged uncomfortably-

_"You may go now, Jauffre."_

A voice says behind him- and it is Uriel's, unquestionably, because this is Uriel's personal study, and no voice has ever had quite the same effect on mortals as his lord's.

Jauffre bites back the urge to ask what had happened- he'd been on his way here to give his report, and so he- he _must_ have, _he did_ , as a matter of fact. His shoulder stings with a strange sort of momentary pain as a hand waves him out in clear dismissal, and he- _he deliberately does not watch it_ \- he nods, only too happy to obey.

* * *

“...BUT AKATOSH THE INTERLOPER, NURSERY-THIEF, SOUGHT THE CRADLE-CRUCIBLE OF THE DREAM FOR HIMSELF, FOR A DRAGON CRAVES ABOVE ALL ELSE ONE THING—”

_**“DOMINION**_.”

_The Dragon’s Madness, fragment ii_

* * *

Jauffre had been only a few months out of training at Cloud Ruler when a letter arrived for him at his post in Solitude. His Captain had found him, face strangely somber for the words that came out of his mouth:

“The Grandmaster’s sent for you, Jauffre. You’ve been summoned to the Imperial City. To the Palace itself, as a matter of fact.”

“Me? Summoned- To the- may I ask why, sir?”

“He’s chosen you for a special assignment.” He paused, mouth twisting into a bitter, grim smile, like as though the man were laughing at some secret joke hidden in those words, and then held up the letter pointedly. Jauffre frowned at the familiarity of the seal, and then started forward as he realized it was the seal of the Emperor himself. Equal parts eager and terrified, he reached out to take it, and the captain pulled his hand back, shaking his head.

The older man had stared at him strangely for a long moment, and then added, slowly, almost imploringly. “You do have the option to decline.”

“Declin- Why would I decline the Grandmaster’s summons? Sir ...that has the Imperial seal- to disobey an order from the Emperor is grounds for treason. I-”

“Do you accept or decline the summons?” he repeated, insistently, voice suddenly harsh and laced with an undercurrent of urgency he couldn’t- at the time- quite understand the reasoning for.

“I... accept, of course, sir.”

His captain merely sighed, and nodded, handing over the letter with a strange sort of reluctance. “I thought you’d say that, lad. You’re a good soldier, an excellent choice. I wish you the best of luck.”

As the years wore on, and the shadows of Oblivion lengthened, Jauffre found himself wishing more and more that he’d said _no._

* * *

“FROM FAR OFF ATMORA TIBER CAME, AND UPON THE THROAT OF THE WORLD HE BECKONED THE GREAT ONE, AFTER THE FASHION OF HIS KIN, AND HE WAS GIVEN UNTO THE BLOOD.”

_The Dragon’s Madness, fragment vii_

* * *

His first introduction to Emperor Uriel Septim came not in the throne room of the Palace, as one might expect, nor in the Grandmaster’s study, but instead, upon his arrival in the capital of the Third Dragon Empire, no sooner than had he reported to his superior than he was promptly ushered back out the door, led by tight-lipped guards. He followed dutifully through the winding streets, until they reached a secluded courtyard. There, the guards left him, and a senior Blade captain instead became his guide. The man was grim-faced and did not speak to him beyond a short, clipped “Candidate.”

The captain turned wordlessly on his heel and led the way to a plain, unmarked grate. Jauffre watched with growing apprehension as the older man pried the grate up and slid it to the side with the scraping whine of metal on stone.

The other man swiftly descended down the ladder, and Jauffre followed him moments after, into the dark of what he soon realized was likely part of the city’s old sewer systems, eagerness to impress preventing him from questioning why.

The torch was lit with the flick of a hand- his guide was a battlemage, it seemed, or at least knew a few spells.

He swiftly lost track of how long they spent navigating the tunnels, his world shrunken to the dim circle of light cast by the torch, the back of his silent guide and their footsteps echoing in the dark.

The torchlight threw strange and distorted shadows on the old stone walls as they moved through the tunnel complex, and it was hard to put aside the terrified fancy that he saw ... _things_ within the shadows, watching them with cold, dead eyes and hungry jaws.

Distracted as he was, even Jauffre could not help but notice that they still seemed to be heading further downward, far deeper than the Imperial City sewers had any business going. The stonework was getting older, more alien in nature. Here and there Jauffre could make out crumbling and eroded relief carvings, the figures weathered into oblivion. Interspersed with the murals were rows of strange linear carvings, deep gouges that looked paradoxically like the scratches of some beast’s talons, but too meticulous and uniformly patterned to be the work of goblins.

_If he’d had any idea of where they were underneath the city, he’d lost it long ago._ Jauffre frowned at his companion’s back _. Just how_ far _do these tunnels go?_

At last they came to a halt before a heavy door. His guide gave the door a push and it swung open with a rusty whine as the man stepped into the room beyond. Jauffre hesitated, halfway of a cautious mind to linger- but just as quickly dismissed the idea as he was reminded that his fellow had taken the torch with him.

He was far from a child who jumped at every shadow, but even still, the thought of straying and being left alone in the dark of these ancient tunnels felt… unwise.

He hurried after the senior Blade into the room.

A hooded figure waited there, and beside them, Jauffre was glad to recognize the Grandmaster of their order. Jauffre and his guide were not the only ones to have come, it seemed, nor were they the last, and soon they were joined by several other candidates and their guides.

The candidates filed into the antechamber, idling nervously. Some of them, Jauffre among them, cast curious glances at the stranger standing at the Grandmaster’s side, but the deep hood obscured their face in shadows.

* * *

“MEN REVERE TIBER SEPTIM AS A GOD.

INDEED, A GOD HE DID BECOME.

THE ALMOST IDEAL, BUT HIDDEN IN HIS MOUTH- ADDERFANGS, FILLED WITH THE ANTITHESIS MISINTENT OF LORKHAN-THAT-IS-NOT, THE CHAOS FROM BEYOND, HE WHO WOULD SHATTER THE SLAVE-THRALL ALESSIA YOKED UPON MORTALKIND- A FATAL FLAW TO THE DRAGON’S GRAND DESIGN.”

_The Dragon’s Madness, fragment vii_

* * *

“Before we were the Blades,” the Grandmaster began, “Emperor’s men- our order was the Dragonguard, dragonslayers and hunters of beasts. Before they were the Dragonguard- _well_. Ours is a long, and bloody history- writ in it, you might say.”

“ It is commonly accepted that the Dragonguard came from Akavir at the time of Reman’s dynasty- and that may very well be true, as they considered themselves hunters of dragons, and dragons originated in Akavir- regarded there as little more than beasts. But there have always been beasts of a sort, and those who hunt them, haven’t there? Blood too, to be spilled- and to be _protected._ That is how it has always been.”

“Even Alessia had those who filled a similar role. So too did the ancestors of the Nords who came from Atamora, though you’ll not hear much of that from them these days. They’re stingy with their secrets and aren’t apt to trust outsiders. Always have been, I’d reckon. Probably always will.”

“But aye, as long as there have been beasts, innocents, and the Blood, so too have there been those who will watch over them, protect them- and _from_ them, should the need arise.”

“You are part of that, now. Dragonguardsmen, privy to our true purpose-”

“The protection of the Emperor?” one of the candidates interjected, eagerly.

“In a sense, yes, _The Blades_ protect the Emperor, and his family, by extension, from the people, for the people. We-” the grandmaster said gravely as he turned, and looked each of them in the eyes. “- protect the _people._ ” Silence falls over the candidates.

“From _what?_ ” one of them croaks out.

“From-” another starts, and then stutters and falls silent, unwilling to complete the thought.

Another, unfamiliar voice breaks the silence.

” _From_ the Emperor and his family.” the hooded man paces leisurely round the large brasier, one hand trailing along the carven horn of one of the snarling wyrms encircling it. In his other hand, he holds a goblet.

The grandmaster steps back respectfully as the man comes to stand before the small group. Beneath the hood, Jauffre catches a glimpse of blue and the suggestion of fangs as the goblet is handed over to the grandmaster.

The man tugs the hood back, and Jauffre is not alone in his shock as the Emperor of Cyrodiil himself turns to face them.

He holds up a hand, shaking his head. “At ease.”

* * *

“HIS BLOOD, MADE IMPURE BY THE ALD STRAIN, A MOCKERY, MARRED BY ITS OWN EXISTENCE. A PARADOXICAL BLASPHEMY.

IMPERFECT.

_**UNACCEPTABLE.”** _

_The Dragon’s Madness, fragment vii_

* * *

The goblet is held out to him in turn, and Jauffre, at the last second, hesitates in the act of reaching for it.

The wine— if it can even be _called_ that— is _wrong._ Thicker and cloudy where it should catch the light, and so deep a red it's almost black.

He lifts his head to stare at the Grandmaster’s impassive face, and then dares to brave a glance to the Emperor himself, only to find the man watching him intently.

* * *

He takes the goblet-

and drinks.

* * *

“THE DRAGON SPURNED HIM, AND CAST HIM ADRIFT ON TIMES’ TIDES, AND IN HIS RAGE-DEFIANCE HE THEN-NOW-EVER SEEKS TO SWALLOW THE WORLD IN WHOLE.”

_The Dragon’s Madness, fragment vii_

* * *

Through the burning fog in his mind, Jauffre slowly becomes aware of a growing commotion somewhere to his right.

He turns his head, vision swimming, and through blurred eyes he watches from where he sits slumped on the floor, as one of his fellow candidates crumples to the ground, groaning and clutching at his throat.

The mood changes in an instant, the senior Dragonguardsmen drawing their weapons and closing ranks.

A few dart forward, helping those who have the sense to flee to shelter, or else dragging those still too stunned to walk outside, beyond the ringed wall of shields.

“ _Ah,_ ” says a voice like a summer storm somewhere above him, all thunder and static in his ears. “How... _unfortunate_.” A sigh, and then, “There’s always one, isn’t there.”

“A pity.”

To Jauffre’s wavering eyesight, in the light of the Brazier the others look almost.. _inhuman,_ the firelight throwing warped shadows that distort the forms of his fellow Dragonguard as they dance and flicker on the ancient walls, limbs too long and bodies contorted.

All eyes in the room are fixed upon the shuddering form of the candidate. The senior officers stand taut and stock-still, weapons held at the ready. They remind Jauffre of his father’s hounds just before a hunt.

Impatient. Eager.

The candidate now lies convulsing on the ground, caught in the throes of some terrible pain as the groans become full-fledged screams.

The sight alone is enough to goad him at last to struggle to his feet, but even as he does so his gaze is drawn again to his suffering peer.

H he does not yet retreat behind the wall of shields, lingering uncertainly, transfixed by the horror of the sight.

A trickle of blood trails from the other’s nose, followed by another from his mouth, and a few of the men actually start forward, violence in their eyes- only to be halted by a half murmured word that could not come from any mortal tongue, Emperor Uriel’s voice echoing like the roll of distant thunder.

Jauffre watches in fascination as the world seems to slow to a crawl around them.

_What’s wrong with him?_ he does not say. He cannot will his tongue to work, even if he wished to. _Why aren’t we helping him?_

“Ah, but _you_ **_can_.**”

“There is only one thing that can cure him now, _Jauffre_ -”

Jauffre numbly allows the goblet to be pried from his grasp. The hand that now holds it, he realizes distantly, is covered in gleaming patches of mottled pale golden scales, and tipped with talons that would put any welp of Hircine’s to shame. The arm connected to the hand, likewise, is covered with scales, here and there mixed with uneven patches of pale white fur, and when he turns to look the other in the face it is like looking into the sun, inhuman face framed by a mane of the same pale fur and crowned by branching, jagged horns.

“H-How?” he finds his voice at last.

A serpentine grin full of fangs stretches across a scaled maw—a fascinating, horrifying mix of man and _other_ —and then the Emperor closes Jauffre’s hands around the blade that he does not remember reaching out for. Around them, time snaps back into place, punctuated by the unpleasant, gruesome sound of bone and flesh cracking and rending, and then, the former candidate’s screams crescendo in an earsplitting shriek.

“ _‘A Hunter must hunt’_ , or so the saying goes.” he says.

Jauffre tears his gaze from the emperor’s face, looks down, and then wishes he hadn’t.

The blade in his hand is already bloody, the edge coated in a trail of too-dark red that matches the line blooming across the Emperor's palm.

He feels sick to his stomach, and as he turns to face the twisted… _thing_ his former peer had become, his throat burns like dragonfire.

* * *

“ _TALOS_ IS A LIE MEN TELL THEMSELVES WHEN ALDUIN’S WINGS VEIL THEIR SKIES.”

_The Dragon’s Madness, fragment vii_


End file.
